part of a stylistic attempt to harness the ambiguity apparent in the divide between author and audience

Monday, February 2, 2009

would this art ask for faith

there is no honesty to this art and no truth told [old hearts yield selfish desires] this fire reeks cold like snow and like snow falls this beauty goes only down and underfoot is trodden into the earth never birthed or realized for what it wants to give for it gives only of its self like the old irish man told

>this art speaks no deeper truth than that whichis revealed upon firstinspection<

[redirection]

is an appeal to the self for your health this will never end for your wealth this will never bend

youthful thoughts twisted in your mind find only those echoes from a thousand decades once

loved once cherished now loved now cherished no needle punctures deep enough to find fresh

follies huddled together neath ancient earth for these are your questions answered posed only

for gain refrain from probing deep within stolen thought for this art asks only for your attention

not redemption and no exceptions train sane vanity in locked chests grasp open sores and ask

these if there lies within ‘the faith’

>I wished on the desolate shore praying up and down moon and sand send gifts from the ocean upon the drift I will render unto you my all for merely a whisper of honesty torn from choirs of salient truth and wait wait wait an eternity I will wait<

and yet again like he once penned [provided it is not too long] for patience falls short of desire this longing is built on ash and sinks until the spires loom meager in the drenched sands and waves wash over and hope denied turns to wasted lies these revealed now as absolute truth because absolute is nought but a dream so it seems broken

and oaken coffins once filled with>>>

::death reveal dust in the due coarse of timelet not this love linger let not this hope grow::

for it wraps tightly around the supple neck and binds and lacerates the divine skin thin or translucent once white pale fresh now red purple flesh and spills forth

real flute sound plentiful still one note at a time trickles fine lines down curved neck over untouched breasts and unadulterated hearts beneath this line crimson and sweet meets maker escapes the source bids fond adieus and moves rapidly down

over unscarred skin towards ill abused navel and down and down and drowns sadly in the place that will never receive

pain neither in nor out that wrenches life from scarred tools grinding hard against one another in mysterious love or anger or misunderstood obligations and this negation of life is death as it ought always have been and now know fully that this into which you have placed all of your hopes and reams of wasted prayers brought sterility to those once most virulent of…